Blackstone Code-Chapter 633: A Drink

The self-taught radio scientist earnestly explained his research results to Lynch, hoping for more funding. He used a barrage of technical jargon that Lynch couldn’t understand.

But Lynch didn’t mind—he just listened while flipping through the handwritten documents the scientist pulled from his worn-out bag.

Lynch had lived through a lot. He once had a friend who owned a tech company. During a business meeting at the friend’s office, someone from the technical department came in to give a report.

The two paused their conversation and listened to the report, filled with incomprehensible terminology. Lynch was surprised—he knew his friend had barely any formal education, not even finishing elementary school. Yet during the report, he nodded calmly, as if he understood every word.

As if he really could understand.

In later conversations, Lynch learned something valuable from this uneducated businessman.

In high-tech industries, money isn’t the most important thing. Of course, it’s necessary—no technology can be developed without it. But for a boss, having money doesn’t mean having everything.

Technical people often have temperaments. Cutting-edge fields attract investors and institutions eager to recruit talent.

So when communicating with such people, you must appear to understand them—even if you don’t—and also make it seem like you’re withholding your opinion for now.

Never let subordinates look down on you, in any industry.

In tech, if a subordinate thinks you’re inferior, they’ll soon leave. No one wants to work for someone they believe is holding them back in such a fast-moving field.

In other industries, being looked down on means your subordinates might try to undermine you. Capital—and those who deal in it—are ruthless. Lynch is the exception.

This was why Lynch behaved as he did now. But he was far more educated than that friend. Occasionally, he even interrupted the scientist with a relevant term or two, making him pause and think.

Of course, this only worked on amateurs like this.

What to do next?

Simple. In and outside of this field, there’s a group of highly skilled professionals who don’t care much for science—they care about money. More money.

Halfway through their conversation, the phone in the room rang.

Lynch put down the materials and gestured, “One moment, let me take this.”

He walked to the corner, picked up the phone. It was Mr. Truman. The moment he answered, Truman’s voice burst through the receiver: “Got time?”

The tone was forceful, like someone holding back anger with nowhere to vent.

Lynch immediately realized this was likely related to what Karl had said—Truman had taken a shot at the big financial groups. But there was no way he came out unscathed.

It was clear—he had forced the financial giants to abandon all their smaller projects. But would they just sit back and accept that?

No chance. They would retaliate. Perhaps they already had.

Lynch replied immediately, “What happened?”

“Come have a drink…” After a pause, Truman gave an answer that caught Lynch off guard.

Lynch agreed, then asked, “You have anyone familiar with military tech on your end?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Lynch explained the situation. Truman quickly recalled the expo they had attended together. Every year, expos of all kinds bloomed across the Federation.

People loved them—rich or poor, as long as they had fun.

Some of them had evolved into parade-like festivals. For example, bubble car races had become iconic.

In hilly or mountainous cities, where roads had steep elevation changes, people started creative events.

They’d pour soapy water on a slope, then sit at the top in inflatable, wheel-less cars. Groups of three to five would race downhill—whoever crossed the line first won.

These expos became fun-filled spectacles, drawing crowds by the thousands.

At one such fair, more like a carnival, Lynch had invested ten thousand in this radio scientist—Truman remembered it well.

To Truman, these self-taught types weren’t real scientists. They lacked professional knowledge, and the resources—money, tools, staff—that formal institutions had. Their results were rarely worth much.

Still, he arranged for someone in the military, someone who specialized in this field, to meet the man Lynch mentioned.

After the call, Lynch returned to the sofa. The scientist was about to speak, but Lynch waved him off while collecting the documents. “No need to worry. I just spoke to someone from the military—they’re interested in your research. But you’ll need to convince them. You understand?”

The scientist was stunned—then overwhelmed with emotion.

If his work could be recognized by the military and applied to real operations, all his years of suffering would be worth it.

Abandoning his wife and retreating to the mountains would no longer be in vain. His hands trembled. “Mr. Lynch… I don’t even know what to say!”

He reached out with both hands to shake Lynch’s but hesitated. Fortunately, Lynch reached out and shook them first.

Soon after, two cars pulled up outside Lynch’s home. Lynch and the scientist went out to greet them.

Truman’s influence in the military was clearly strong. At Lynch’s introduction, two soldiers took the scientist’s materials and invited him to discuss his inventions at a research base.

The military had, in fact, been researching similar tech.

Previously, reconnaissance meant intercepting radio signals. If an enemy stayed silent or operated in heavily jammed zones, anything beyond line-of-sight was lost.

The Federation military had been refining their tactics. If they could detect and strike enemies beyond visual range, they could seize the initiative in war.

Their naval battles with Gephra had revealed many shortcomings: lack of large-scale combat experience, no urban warfare skills, no experience attacking ports…

These gaps couldn’t be filled overnight. The world was at peace—you couldn’t just go find someone to fight.

But just because it’s peacetime doesn’t mean these issues can be ignored. So, within the military, there was a proposal to use technology and standardized procedures to make up for the lack of combat experience.

The idea quickly passed Congress—after all, when the military asks for increased procurement and R&D funding, the first to benefit are the defense contractors. And as everyone knows, most of the members in charge of budget approvals are tied to those very groups.

By approving the military’s plan, the legislators secured significant benefits for themselves. No enemies made—why say no?

Yes, and also well-known: taxpayers don’t get a say…

After watching the military personnel take the radio scientist away, Lynch turned to look at Mr. Truman, who was sitting in the car. He gestured toward his house. “Weren’t we going to have a drink?”

Truman shook his head. “Out.”

He clearly wasn’t in a good mood. Lynch didn’t question it and got into the car.

As Truman started the engine, he asked, “Got any regular spots you like?”

Lynch gave him an address. Not long after, they arrived at the place. Truman, still in the car, stared at the lavishly decorated building with its flashing neon sign shaped like two red high heels, momentarily speechless.

“This is the place you picked?”

His voice rose slightly.

“A strip club?”

He couldn’t help but laugh as he spoke, then turned off the engine and pulled out the keys. “Alright, this’ll do.”

The two ignored the vague presence of others exiting nearby cars and circling them. Sometimes, when a man possesses things others can’t—wealth, status, power—he inevitably gives up something in return.

It wasn’t evening yet, so the club wasn’t fully open, but the warm-up acts had started.

They entered the club and exchanged some bills at the front—ones, twos, and fives. Lynch handled it all himself, swapping out a full thousand.

“I haven’t been to a place like this since I graduated from the academy…” Truman said, standing in the main hall, a little nostalgic as he took a deep breath.

The air was thick with a strange mixture of smells—cigarette smoke, perfume, alcohol, and something faintly arousing.

It all blended together, floating in the air, inescapable. Some call it filth. Others call it desire.